hard on my chest, so that I could scarcely breathe; then he ventured to loose my throat, and tore the box open eagerly.
"Bring a light here," he cried. Another ruffian came with a dark lantern, whose glow he turned on the box. Rupert opened it, and when he saw what was inside he laughed again, and stowed it away in his pocket.
"Quick, quick!" urged Rischenheim. "We've got what we wanted, and somebody may come at any moment."
A brief hope comforted me. The loss of the box was a calamity, but I would pardon fortune if only the letter escaped capture. Rupert might have suspected that I carried some such token as the box held, but he could not know of the letter. Would he listen to Rischenheim? No. The Count of Hentzau did things thoroughly.
"We may as well overhaul him a bit more," said he, and resumed his search. My hope vanished, for now he was bound to come upon the letter.
Another instant brought him to it. He snatched the porte-monnaie, and, motioning impatiently to the man to hold the lantern nearer, began to examine the contents. I remember well the look of his face as the fierce white light threw it up against the darkness in its clear pallor and high-bred comeliness, with its curling lips and scornful
